The Grandson
by oldfashionedromantic
Summary: Regency Era: Christine Daaè is the orphaned caretaker of the Dowager Duchess Madeline Mansart . She has sworn off men and love, after having her heart crushed by her first love. Erik Mansart is the seductive grandson of her mistress forced to stay there until he selects a wife. He has no desire to do so, until his grandmother arranges his match to none other than Christine. E/C
1. Prologue: Upper Class Society

**Prologue: Upper Class Society**

_Erik Manzart's journal July the 12th _

_ 1814, the ballroom of the Garnier estate_

_ Paris, France_

I had arrived that evening in the great yellowish-golden light of my parent's ballroom with a sense of wariness filling my heart. My name or rather my _title _was the Earl of Boucherville, this was how everyone knew me and they addressed me either as my lord, or Boucherville. I had been announced by Nadir, my personal servant and best childhood friend for over twenty years now. His son, Reza walked by me with a tray of glittering fizzy champagne glasses. He offered me one and I took it before quietly slipping away to the overseeing balcony. As was my habit I preferred to watch the party then actually _attending _it nowadays.

Who am I? My name, my Christian name that is, is Erik Charles Manzart, and who I am is of little importance. No one really gave a damn these days anyway. People only recognized me by my honorifics, sending their 'lovely' daughters in flocks to drool over me like a pack of dogs. All of which bored me to tears with their competition over me as if I had any interest in any of them. Sometimes, for the sakes of my own amusement I would smile at them and flirt a little. The girls would faint as I smiled at each one, and gave them the obligatory kiss on the hand.

Not knowing any of their names and simply referring to them as 'Mam'selle' and they would fall like melting candle-wax pooling on the floor like a great massive lake of frilly dresses. I would pretend interest in them for a few minutes till I was bored and then excuse myself. As I walked away, I would have a private laugh to myself as they bickered amongst themselves over which one of them I fancied more, when in truth I had no interest in any of these women and most likely never would. They were all the same to me, well-bread and gentle little girls who wouldn't know an adventure if it literally beat them on the head.

So I stopped associating with them all together and as I stood there at the balcony of the great ballroom I watched the commotion with a certain amount of amusement. I had always detested public gatherings, they were just another thing for the upper-class to waist oodles of money on and in the end create more bastards that they did not see fit to claim, lest they hand over power to those undeserving children who were formed at the bosoms of mothers who foolishly tried to rise above their stations in society. Where they were disappointed and only to find themselves being fooled into the haystacks with foolhardy young officers drunk on beer or whisky and looking for a fling, a quick romp in the hay and then their devotion was gone.

Those children at least had the good fortune of not being shunned by this harsh world. It was easy to excuse a bastard by saying his father had been killed off whilst he had been off fighting that dreadful war in England for our dear leader Bonaparte. If the officer happened to show up, this was a very rare occurrence the woman would say that he had been the identical twin of the man. As the man wanted less to do with the child then he would with horse droppings, he agreed and squeezed out a tear for this fictional brother who did not exist. No one questioned him afterwards and the mother pretending to grieve for the lover she never had would be free to go on her way.

She would raise the child if it was male to join his Majesty's army or navy if he preferred the sea where he would be celebrated, his illegitimacy forgotten in his heroism. If the baby had been so unfortunate as to be born a girl however, she would grow up accepting the match of a clergyman who would only be twice her age if he was lucky. Perhaps a rather handsome hardworking fellow, a farmer or tenant to a lord of some esteem if she was really beautiful. Someone well off enough to not be poor but not rich either, someone whom the people respected and loved enough to overlook her 'situation.' They were the truly the most fortunate because they actually got to fall in love with their husbands instead of finding them disgusting.

The ones who married the clergymen were doomed to a life of misery as well as utter and endless boredom. They were the women who became sour-faced in their old age with no traces of their former beauty remaining about to lose everything to their son who despised them for their bitterness and worshipped his father the way sons were supposed to do. They were to love their mothers and worship the grounds their fathers stepped on. Whilst the mothers who had nursed them from birth withered in the corner, rocking slowly back and forth on a rocking chair held together by the grace of God.

She would shrivel up and die that way with a cup of lukewarm tea spilled unceremoniously at her feet. Staining the rug she had kept spotless all the years of her marriage, her son would come in with his fiancé—some knocked up chambermaid of some lowly-titled lord he had been ministering for her. Plain faced and frumpy, someone he had never intended to marry, only to ease the urges of his youth. It would be the same as all the others of its kind a secret affair where no one would give a damn whether he slept with her because she was nothing but a servant.

Now heavy-laden with his bastard son or daughter he was forced to wed her in order to protect the sanctity and reputation of the church. He would her in her chair and weep, though it was really his intended who ought to be weeping. She was doomed to be trapped in a never ending cycle of the aforementioned. She would be dulled to the point of breaking in a life of church, modesty and too many children. It was a curse more than a blessing but such was her fate in this harsh time. Even in these modern days of the nineteenth century the bastards of the world had to be taught to stay in their rightful God-given place.

They didn't have the rights to marry above their station in fact it would be better if they all married one another and forgave their children the misery of that fate. But that was never going to happen, they would repeat the cycle and for this the innocent would be tortured and left them to fend for themselves. I looked at the crowd, picking out the illegitimate ones on sight. One could always tell them by the sullen, downtrodden expressions on their faces as they looked, gaping at the glittering world of the ones born wealthy. It was sad in an almost pathetic way, and I did feel a twinge of pity for the children cursed by their parent's lust.

It was however, the children of the nobles that I pitied the most, the lovechildren that is because they were the ones who had it the worst. I should know, my name by birth is Erik De Chagny, I am the middle of the three Chagny boys, second only by my brother Philippe (28) and the baby Raoul (18) I am 24 and should rightfully be the Vicomte at my age, but I do not claim this as according to society I have no right to. My birth-father was the handsome and amorous Comte Philibert, a drunken womanizer may he rest in peace, who died at the tragic age of fifty. When Philippe was 26, I 22 and Raoul 16, in his will he had left everything to the two sons he claimed and nothing to me.

I was not less than unsurprised by this nor did I really care to be perfectly honest, as I had only met the man once or twice and found him loathsome at best. No, I preferred to claim the surname of the man who had raised me as his own, Charles Manzart and my mother, the formal Comtesse Perrlut, first name Marie. He was a sober, steady and above all sterile and saw nothing wrong with claiming me as his own for two very practical reasons. Those being to save Marie, adulteress that she was, and by extension himself from the utter shame and disgrace of the whole mess and two to finally have the heir he so desperately wanted but could not produce.

Due to his position in Parisian society no one dared question the birth of the man's only son. After all I was quite beautiful and seeing as my father was the Duke de Garnier no one dared to challenge the reliability of his word. Father is after all, the most powerful man in the district so what he said was always correct even when it wasn't so. Hell, he could have commanded people to believe as they had in the sixteenth century that the world was flat and they would go right along with it. If father said he had a son, then he had a son and that was that, end of discussion; no inquiries needed as if there ever were any,

The only problem was the matter of the left side of my face, which was repulsive but easily excused because I loved horses very, very much. I'd had loved them since I was a child so my father had used that for an explanation. Father had blamed it on a fire in the stables and said that when I was two I had not been listening to him and was where I wasn't supposed to be. Then due to the drunken stable master falling asleep with a cheroot in his hand the hay caught fire and I rushed to save the horses, in the process being badly burned. He said I was lucky to have been left alive and fired the man on the spot. That part was at least true because Joseph Bouquet was really a dreadful man with a heavy, heavy thirst for the drink.

My father had fired the man at once when he had caught the man trying to give me a swig of his cheap wine. The kind that tasted awful but got a man drunker than a skunk by the time the second mouthful slid down the gullet. He drank several bottles a day sometimes three or four in the space of one hour, so that he was teetering on the edge of his splintering wooden chair. I had heard him singing in a slurred, off-key way so that the words were unintelligible. Of course being five I was naturally curious to what the noise was, and came into the stables to see the man and be handed his bottle to me.

I had been curious as to why he was so fat and red-faced in the cheeks, as jolly and out of it as a dizzy clown. I smelled it, it smelled like grapes which have always been my favorite fruit and I was about to put it to my lips. When father came looking for me to give me my daily riding lesson and took the bottle from me and fired the drunkard the moment he saw the brand on the bottle knowing it was the kind he usually drank and seeing Bouquet passed out snoring in the dirt and straw, his face in a pile of horse manure that was it. Father yanked the drunken fool up by his oily brown hair, yelled in his ear and tossed him out the door where he stumbled onto the road. No doubt heading to the local bar to spend the franc's father had tossed him for his service on more booze.

The people of the French aristocracy did not know this story however and were content to fawn over and pity me. I did not contradict them because if I did father would be disgraced in front of the public. People would see him as a liar and his reputation would be destroyed as would mine. So I let the women call me a poor little darling and kiss my face. The men would ruffle my dark hair and call me a 'regular ole soldier' and tell Father that I would be fine because of the title and also because I was such a charmer already. Father would beam proudly and tell them not to forget that I was in possession of a brilliance that was akin to something miraculous.

They would laugh and humor the man, saying of course he would say something like this because I was his only son and heir to a title that many men would envy. In other words what they were implying that I could have been dumber than a wooden post and he would still praise my virtues. Of course no one blamed the man, they saw it perfectly normal that a man should be infatuated with his first born son and act like he was God's gift to humanity, especially after so many years of trying to conceive. It was only right that my father should revel in his success and achieving a male child on the first try.

But my father was not lying; I had indeed been born with a supernatural genius so great that my first cry had been more like the singing of a cherub than the wail of a newborn. It had been such a shock that mother had dashed me from her breast to the floor where father had scooped me up in his strong hair-roughened arms. He had thought I was beautiful despite my face, because only a truly beautiful child could be blessed with a voice like my own. Still they had kept me inside for the first two years of my life, telling whoever came calling that his boy was away at nursing school. This was not a complete lie as I was in my room nursing my genius.

By the time I was three I could play the piano better than most and was writing music, my own music that made Mozart look like a simpleton. When I was three my father had took me out into the streets when he concocted a story to tell people. No one knew the real reason I looked like this that my mother had swallowed arsenic while pregnant with me in an attempt to murder me before I was born and her secret was discovered. This was the will of her lover so that his family name was not tarnished by the fate of exposure. But Father would not have it and claimed me as his own at once.

Father had told my mother that he appreciated her giving him _his _heir and if my birth father had anything to say about it he would deal with him personally. Of course my birth-father did nothing and blamed the whole mess on my father's mutated seed. Father had ignored the challenge to his masculinity and returned home to the Duchess who was lying in bed, taking the customary three days to recover from the birth. He had then placed me back in my mother's arms and she looked down at the damage she did to me. She wept for her only child and begged God's forgiveness for doing this to me, clasping my wailing for to her breasts and allowing me to eat from her.

They had loved me more than anything and within reason had not denied me anything. Anything I wanted father and mother would give me, a private music teacher was no trouble. If I wished to take trips to exotic places, no issue for father who did not see anything wrong with a young man seeing the world in his youth before he did what he expected of him. But mother worried (as she was apt to do) that these trips would be ones of corrupted pleasure rather than education. Father however, waved her off and took me anyway as he always did.

For my sixteenth birthday there was a trip to Persia where I learned to do magic and ventriloquism. I spent some time learning to do illusions and getting into trouble with passing gypsies. Who taught me to dance in their ways and told me fantastic stories of faraway lands. For my eighteenth birthday a trip to Milan was in order for me to indulge my passion for music and architecture. Performances at La Scala and then architecture lessons from the greatest mason in Italy, a man named Giovanni Vincenzo. He taught me everything I needed to know all about the mathematics and forms of it all.

When I turned 21 however father did something mother had detested, he sent me to a brothel and paid the courtesan to make me a man. I had detested it, because mother had told me that women who did this may carry all kinds of illness that made me sick. But the real reason I did not like it was because I knew how many other men had used her and that she was using me the same way. Money for sex, with a woman who had no respect for herself and no respect for me, but still it was expected of a young aristocrat to become a man at that age.

Three years had passed without incident but now that my fundamental youth was over the pressure was on. Now that I was 24, my parents were fretting that I would never marry, and they were right to. The fact that I was single at my age without even an engagement to ensure my future was something that thoroughly vexed my mother. I just wished they would leave me be about my unmarried status because really what was the hurry? Why do I suddenly have to marry just because I was a nobleman? The only answer I could give was this welcome to upper-class society.

**For Hannah and Zoe**

**A/N: This is my first attempt at a regency Phantom fic, tell me how I did?**


	2. Chapter one: Dilemmas

**A/N ok so the first chapter wasn't great but never done this before I will get better**

Chapter one: Dilemmas

Charles Mansart sat wearily in his huge armchair with his face cupped in his knurled aging hands. The fifty-four year old looked drained with dark purplish circles under his eyes that made him look weary beyond recognition. His wife, Marie stood beside him. Her one hand on the back of his neck, while her other was rubbing his arm as she tried to comfort him with a glass of brandy. Charles put the cup to his lips, drained it and slammed it down with a moan that might have terrified the undead. He then placed his hands back over his face rubbing his eyelids sagging as though he were in pain.

"Charlie is something wrong?" she questioned timidly, wanting as always to ease his mind.

Though she wasn't quite sure she wanted to know the answer, it was her job as his wife to ensure his comfort. Charles looked up into her gentle violet eyes at this innocent question, they were full of concern. He knew that whenever she called him 'Charlie' she was either worried for him or worried about something in general. Charles did not usually respond to the first kind of worries from his wife. His attitude was one of grin-and-bear-it and he did not like to burden his wife with his problems. But tonight he felt like he should tell her what was on his mind and do so as gently as he could.

"Yes…" he started uneasily.

Marie paled; she knew that careful tone in his voice well after 31 years of marriage. It meant that she was about to hear something unpleasant. The last time she had heard that tone was 13yrs ago when he had announced that he could never give her a child. Marie had been devastated and it had driven her to take a lover. Not that she would do that again but still. Marie wondered what news or otherwise that could make him use that tone. She took a deep breath inward, bracing herself for the news she was certain she wasn't going to like.

"Well what is it?" She asked.

Charles refilled his brandy and downed it again, this time coughing as it seared the lining of his throat. Now she was really worried, her husband never had more than one glass of brandy in the evening. Not since they married, though she couldn't attest to what he had done in his unmarried youth. Quite frankly she did not want to know anyway. But to see him drink more than one glass was unsettling to say the least. She took his third glass away before he commenced to get too drunk and placed it on the corner table.

"Are you all right Charles you are acting very unusual this evening…" she whispered.

"I am an unusual sort of man Marie." He stated in that bland matter of fact way of his.

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Now would you please tell me what's going on?" Marie pestered, close to hysterics.

He decided to get straight to the point, "It's that boy of ours."

Charles turned to her seeing the worry on her face. Marie went whiter than a sheet and sat down in her chair trembling. Then she started to sob and weep as if her heart had been torn straight from her chest. Charles slapped himself in the forehead, realizing his wife immediately assumed the worst. She was apt to do that sort of the thing even when it was as minor as burning his morning toast. When it came to their son, she was terrified of everything from him stubbing his toe to getting the black plague. Hell that boy had a more devoted mother than Christ.

He went to the wall and tugged the bell-pull thinking she needed something hot to drink. It sometimes calmed her down and even lulled her to sleep. At the very least, it would stop her hysterics. Charles rubbed his temples as his head started to pound viciously. He knew that telling her was a bad idea and was now kicking himself for telling her in the first place. But the cat was out of the bag and there was no taking back the words. But then he realized that whenever he mentioned something wrong with the boy, she blamed herself.

Her reaction was one of guilt for what she had done to him and the boy all those years ago. But though the thought still pained him in the far-reaches of the night, he had forgiven her the mistake. Not only had he forgiven her but he understood the reason why. She wanted a baby so desperately that she had done whatever she could to have one. On some level was glad that she had betrayed him. Charles knew how strange it was, but no one knew how happy he was when he finally had the child he had always wanted.

It seemed however that she had not yet forgiven herself for the damage. Marie was a very religious woman and feared the ultimate punishment. She had done the unthinkable and feared that the poison was making him worse. Her fears were not unfounded. Charles had heard stories of residual poison making children sick. But apart from a twisted face the boy was fine. Still it broke his heart that she was still tortured so many years later. He went to her taking both her hands in his, rubbing them to relax her balled up fists.

"Marie, relax I'm going to get you a nice cup of hot tea." Charles whispered.

Marie was unresponsive to his gentle attentions. As a matter of fact she looked utterly petrified. Tears were still going down her face, and he ran his thumb under one of them. It was icy not hot like tears were supposed to be. Charles was worried, because that usually meant that one was catching a fever. He shook her lightly trying to evoke some kind of reaction from his wife. The one he got was less than favorable however. Marie put her hands over her face and let out a strangled scream. Charles sighed and wrapped his arms around her tightly, making a gentle tisk-tisk sound and kissing the top of her head.

"It's all right." Charles whispered.

"No it is not…forgive me…please." She sobbed.

"I already have dear, years ago," whispered her husband.

Hearing this was like the cracking stone walls open of a dam; she fell on him and sobbed against his shirt. Charles liked to think he was a stern and unfathomable man but he could not stand to see his wife weeping. Especially in this self-inflected torture of her heart. She was and always had been a wonderful mother to Erik and a devoted wife to him. He hated the way she was always tormenting herself over something that he had never cared about in the first place. Charles pulled away from her and looked into that round, kind face and her tearful eyes usually so bright and cheerful.

His wife had never been a classic beauty but she was his soul-mate and he had no trouble admitting that he loved her. She was a sweet good-natured woman who had all the virtues that a wife should have. Marie was dutiful, proper and mild and knew all the things a woman ought to. She could play the piano, embroider beautifully and watercolor with the best of them. But the most important part was that she loved him back and did everything a Duchess should do. When it came to being a lady of grace and poise she was the epitome of an example. Minus of course the time she had committed the act outside of their marriage. Which no one but the three parties new about and did not care to shed light on anyway.

Nadir came up stairs, "Master?" he asked, breaking the eye-contact between Charles and his wife.

"Ah! Nadir," Charles acknowledged the servant with a clap of his hands. "Send up some tea would you? Madame is in distress."

"Right away Monsieur," said the Persian before heading back down the stairs, turning around and asking, "Chamomile?"

"Yes, yes" replied Charles with a bored wave of his hand.

Marie smiled gratefully at the man while her husband shooed him away. He had never really liked that ebony-skinned foreigner, always thought he was up to no good. There was just something mysterious about him that really got under Charles' skin. He wasn't quite sure what it was about the man that bothered him so much. He had never done anything illegal or foolish always respectful too. But it was there, something curious about the jade eyes always half-veiled beneath their lids. It was something shifty about the way he spoke as well. Too polite, too careful, Charles had known that men like that were not to be trusted.

That they were the ones who slaughtered men on the side of the road for their purses and used to wonder from place to place swindling more out of the mouths of innocent people. Whenever they were alone together he never said a word other than 'yes master' or 'no master' which made Charles very suspicious. It seemed he was hiding something from him, some secret of his homeland which may or may not be incriminating. Still he did not dare question the man or his wife would think him paranoid which to be fair he was a little.

The only reason he even allowed the man into his house was because Erik wanted him around otherwise he would have sent him away on the spot. And Darius, whom his wife adored, and he did not mind having about the house. He played the role of butler in the house and came in with the silver tray. He placed it on the table, bowed out and left the couple alone. Charles poured her the tea and held it out to Marie. He tried to hand it to her but she waved it away. Charles sighed and held the cup to her lips forcing her to drink it.

"There now my dear, relax your poor hands love." He said and then regretted it.

"I would not be so stressed if you would tell me what's wrong with my son." She said, "Has the poison gone to his poor head the way it went to his face?"

"No of course not," he said calming her.

"Then what is it," she said looking relieved.

"Well the boy is strange Marie." Charles replied choosing his words carefully.

Marie threw her head back and laughed, "You are noticing this now?"

Charles blinked, "What do you mean love?"

"He's always been strange Charles, what toddler writes music?"

"No Marie he's strange, he shows no interest in women at his age," Said Charles in distress.

Marie patted his shoulder, "No love he shows no interest in _those _woman."

Charles rubbed his head, "And what is wrong with women?" he asked pointedly.

"Well dear, the women you pick are just a mess." She told him matter of fact.

"The women I pick." He echoed. "Well then since you seem to know everything tell me what was wrong?"

She arched her eyebrow at him, "A whore and a zealot great job Charlie."

Charles laughed; his wife had a sharp tongue. "Oh come now my dear, they can't be as bad as all that."

"Oh no, Then why isn't Erik madly in love yet?" Marie retorted.

"He is just being difficult." Snapped Charles in response, "Why just the other day you were telling me what a lovely creature Meg Giry was."

His wife wrinkled her nose, "Lovely she was and also silly." She said with a shake of her salt-and-pepper head.

"Silly," her husband replied incredulously, "she seems a very sensible girl to me!"

"Sensible bah, how can you call that woman sensible?" retorted Marie.

"Well she's looking for a husband, knows Erik is my heir and-"

"And has slept with half the unmarried lords in society!" she countered.

That was at least true; the Baroness Meg Giry was a bit of a tart no not a bit hugely, in fact she was so promiscuous that it was almost a rite of passage to have bedded her. It was well known that she made a fortune playing the mistress to wealthy young aristocrats smitten with her feminine wiles. There weren't many young lords who hadn't been able to describe parts of her body that only her mother and husband should have seen. Erik included actually, she had tried to tempt him into her bed and to his credit he had went. But when he was finished she had no more use for him and tossed him out into the cold Parisian night.

Erik had come home and told him that now he was an official man of society. Charles had asked him what he had meant and he had asked why his father hadn't paid _her _to make him a man. Marie had flown into a rage, believing Meg to be an innocent and could not believe her little boy would do such a thing. Erik had shown that he was as foolish as any young man, and told his mother that every single one of his schoolboy friends have had a go at Meg ahead of him. She had gone white as a ghost and her eyes rolled back in her head. When she had awakened she had made him promise never to see that little hussy again. Erik had agreed and Marie had refused to speak to Charles for weeks after.

"All right," Charles said, "Perhaps she would not make the best candidate for his wife, but then what about Luciana Delacroix? She's a pretty little thing, sweet natured and-"

"Far too superstitious," Scoffed his wife, "Going on about ghosts and such nonsense."

Again she was right. Le Vicomtesse Luciana Delacroix while lovely was to be put bluntly a silly little fool. Charles had arranged a date for his son and her. He knew that the Opera Populaire would be the perfect spot for such a couple to fall in love. Erik would love the music and she had a great passion for the ballet. She loved it so much that she might have joined it if society had allowed but alas she could not. So Erik took her to a place where she could at the very least enjoy watching her passion carried out for her enjoyment.

Everything had gone splendidly at first as Charles had known it would. Erik had been dressed in his finest clothes and picked her up in his father's white coach. The carriage was pulled by four horses of blackest ebony. He had road up to her home where the Comte Delacroix had thanked him profusely for taking an interest in his daughter. Erik had nodded, shook hands with the man and accepted the glass of rum offered him. He had nursed it, made small talk and done all the things a young gent should do when awaiting his lady of the evening.

When at last she had descended the stairs in a gown the color of crème and jewels to match her eyes Erik had indeed been stunned by her beauty or so he said. He had greeted her, kissed the air above her hand and took her out. Promising the old Comte that he would not have her out too late and that he could wait up for them if he wished. He did not have to wait long however because they no sooner gotten to the theater than she had asked him what box he had rented. He had told her that just for her he had rented the most expensive box. Charles had to smirk as he remembered Erik's recap of that situation.

"Well son," Charles greeted, "Back so soon? How was the Vicomtesse?"

Erik had placed his face in his hands and groaned, "It was a disaster!" he said, sounding frustrated, "an absolute disaster!"

"But why, did she break your heart my little one?" His mother asked, mistaking his annoyance for a broken heart.

"No mother." Erik replied gently patting her hand. "She's just mad as a hatter." Then turning to Charles, "Father you rented Box five on the grand tier tonight yes?"

"Of course, only the best for my son you know that!" Charles said clapping him on the back then looking concerned. "Was it not to your liking?"

"Oh no father, the box was exquisite and I thank you it's just that…" his voice trailed off.

"Just what, what's the matter darling?" his mother prompted.

"Luciana is an absolute lunatic!" he said loudly, pulling at his hair.

"Now Erik," his mother said sternly, hands on her hips. "That's impolite and I raised you better than that."

"Yes you did mother and I apologize, but she is." He raved.

"Well at least explain yourself." His father said seating the young man beside his mother who automatically laid his head in her lap.

"Father, we got there and she asked what box I had rented for tonight so I told her."

Charles nodded, "go on."

"Well she had refused to get out of the carriage and started screaming about some ghost of some kind." Erik told them and his mother and father laughed in response.

"Good lord Erik, you must be joking!" His father gasped.

"I wish I was." Erik moaned. "And if that wasn't bad enough she then looked up at the sky begging God to get her away from this sinful place."

"Oh my dear," Marie looked shocked as she absently stroked his hair, "What did you do about it?"

"I took her home of course, walked her to the door and left right away." Erik told her, closing his eyes, "If this is how women are then I am never going to marry."

His mother had laughed then but she didn't know he had been serious. Now she and her husband were back in the same position they were before she had born Erik. Worried and confused, her husband saying there was something wrong and neither one knew why he was acting this way. But one look at his wife's tired face and Charles knew he had to do something. The only problem was what? It certainly was a dilemma.


	3. Chapter two: A grandmother's offer

**Chapter two: **A grandmother's offer.

Charles turned to his wife. Marie was looking at him, her eyes gentle but strangely tired. She turned her face to the window where rain was just beginning to fall. It fell faster and faster, but the rhythm was steady. He reached over and took her hand in his. Marie squeezed his hand lightly as he turned to her, wrapping his free arm around her waist. The couple began to dance slowly to the rain. Charles hiding his face in his wife's neck as they moved across the floor, Marie laughed gently. Charles looked at his wife raising her eyebrow.

"What may I ask, do you find so amusing?" asked her husband.

"You…" She said into the side of his throat.

"Oh and why is that Madame?" He asked, smirking.

"You always try to be so stern and cross, but you're just a silly old fool." She told him fondly.

Her husband smiled, knowing she was correct once again. Charles turned her so that her back to him and rocked her gently. She knew him better than anyone it seemed and always had. Marie knew his every thought, every gesture and sometimes what he was going to say before it came out of his mouth. Charles leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, the way he had done at their wedding. She returned it, kissing him with an open mouth and heart. He stopped dancing with her and wrapped his arms around her fully. Marie pulled back, looking into his dark eyes before stroking his unshaven cheek.

He pressed her hand to his cheek and kissed her palm. She blushed and Charles had to smile as he ran his fingers under her chin. He loved how he could still make her blush. Charles leaned forward and closed the gap between their lips. The kiss was soft, familiar. It held all the warm fuzziness that came with the length of a marriage. No fireworks, just warmth and affection. Marie kissed him back; she deepened it to spark that little fuse she knew was still there. He returned it, feeling that it had been too long since they had been intimate.

Charles untied her tight bun, fanning out her soft hair and placing his hand on the back of her head. They continued to kiss, her hands gripping his shoulders as their breathing became heavier. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the couch. They sat down there for a good five minutes, loving each other the way they had when they first married. Marie pulled out of his embrace, turning away and shaking her head. This was strange, because she never retreated from his touch before. Yet here she was looking rather displeased at the touch and pulling out of his arms.

The Duke turned her chin back to him so she met his eyes. There was worry beneath her tiny spectacles hanging from the edge of her nose. Charles sighed as she got up and crossed the room to the window again. He got up and went right up behind her, placing his hands on the tops of her shoulders and rubbing them gently. She lifted her head to the ceiling and closed her eyes, and sighed before looking at the glass and he could see the frown in her face through her reflection.

"What's bothering you?" he asked.

"I'm worried about Erik…" said his wife.

"Why?" he asked gently.

"He's a brilliant boy, but he's been so distant to me and you lately." Marie said.

This was true; the boy had become distant lately. He had taken to rarely coming out of his room. When he did he said very little if anything at all. He then returned to his room for the rest of the day. A far cry from the happy young man who used to run out into the drawing room kissing his mother and begging his father for one more horseback ride before his lessons. Erik had been such a happy child and this separation had bothered him too, but he had assumed that it was just a phase that most young men went through.

"Well he's not a little boy anymore. Young men often grow distant from their mothers. I did." Charles tried to reassure her.

She snorted, "Your mother is a dragon lady." She pointed out, "It's no wonder you ran away from her."

He groaned and wished he had his pipe because they had been over this so many times that he could recite the fundamentals in his head. Charles knew well of his wife's distaste for his mother and vice versa. He was sure the whole of the French gentry knew it too; Lord knows they spoke on it often enough and by that he meant whenever they happened to be within one hundred feet of one another. His mother hated her and she felt the same way and it had been this way since he had chosen to court her thirty-two years ago and things had not gotten any better since.

He rolled his eyes, "My mother is a sweet old woman. Hell she even invited Erik to stay with her if he's ever been into trouble."

"She's no sweeter than Marie Antoinette!" Marie snapped, "The old hag! She has made no secret of her hatred of me Charles and you know it."

"Oh come now…" chided her husband in a good natured way, "She hates everyone, and you know that."

"Well everyone, besides you and Erik that is- I am sure. I mean really some of the things she's said to me over the years!" she huffed.

Charles sighed; his wife had every right to dislike his mother. Most people did. Le Dowager Duchess Madeline Mansart was, to be blunt a holy terror. She was severe, exact and brutally honest. But Charles had loved her; he had been her only son and as such was as dear to her as Erik was to Marie. That however did not mean that she liked his choice in a wife and had told him many times that he could have done fare better than the daughter of a lowly Comte. He groaned remembering the many nights when he had argued with her to leave him alone about his choice in a Duchess.

"She's so plain and frumpy!" Madeline had objected.

"Marie may not be a Goddess but she's hardly objectionable." Charles tried to reason with her.

"Hardly, pish-posh boy she's everything wrong with high society!" His mother said hotly as she flopped down in her overstuffed armchair.

"Mother come now, she's sweet young, and from a good family. Titled…what's wrong with her?"

"She's ugly, simple and poor for one!" Madeline sneered.

"Mother she is not..." he protested.

"Oh please she's as bad my first husband-may he rest in peace." She gave the obligatory crossing of herself.

_'Hardly' _he thought.

Madeline's first husband Choleti Ferréol was a handsome baron who had Italian blood through his mother. Though incredibly charming was a dreadful womanizer and a raucous drunk. He had all the charm and romance of that country where the music whispered of seduction and the drinking of his father's home. Not only had he charmed her but he had gotten her pregnant and married her by the same year by way of her father's gun in his back. He had reveled in the power of the dukedom and abused it terribly. Flirting with every girl who caught his eye, leaving her and the child home alone waiting to pick up the mess he created.

"Mother do not compare her to that rakehell she is by no means as bad as all that." Charles snapped, losing his calm for a moment.

"Of course she is you will find someone else like I did." She said a little sweetness in her voice as she tried to inject maternal comfort into this tearing-down.

Charles was sure he would meet someone else the way she did after Ferréol's untimely demise. He had died of a drunken duel when the child was four, leaving his widow less than sorrowful and free to remarry. There had been speculation of course that his wife had planned it as a way to repay him for all his infidelities. But of course everyone had pushed them aside to see what the now single mother was going to do with herself. His mother had gone on with her life as she always did, acting as if Ferréol's death was simply business as usual.

She had then met his father, the older Erik Mansart. He was a dreamy codger of an Earl who would have joined the clergy had he been allowed to. His father's dream had been to be a priest and marry young loving couples but alas society wanted him to be something else. His mother had married him a year after and conceived Charles that Christmas. She had seemed happy, as well as she could be and proud of both of her children though he had of course been her favorite for obvious reasons. Still he did not see what the matter was with the idea of him marrying Marie that was so bad to make her act like this.

He decided to see if he could get a better grasping of the situation, "Aside from those are there any other objections?"

"Well aside from being an ugly impoverished simpleton look at her family!" she moaned dramatically.

He laughed a little at her theatrics, "What's wrong with it?"

"Well look at her father!" she shrieked, "Perrault is a land-rich aristocrat without a penny to his name, and worse a _Comte_!" she looked disgusted.

Charles did not point out the fact that he didn't care about money and looks did not make a good spouse, "What is wrong with being a Vicomtesse?" he asked innocently.

"There's nothing wrong with it, if the one they are courting is a Comte or below, titles must stick to titles I always say!" she pointed out. "Look at your sister."

Charles groaned and rubbed his temple at the mention of his sister, Carlotta, his senior by five years. She was the daughter of that ne'er-do-well first husband of hers. Now the prominent Duchess ben Guidicelli, married to an Italian of the same title as her stepfather and brother. Ubaldo Piangi had born her a male heir, a strapping young grandson named Saraphimo. His nephew was both a very good and handsome boy and a credit to his grandmother, set to become a duke and in the meantime preparing for an illustrious career as a celebrated officer not that she cared really.

That was not his mother's concern if her daughter's line ended it would be a pity for her son-in-law but not an issue for Madeline. Their match had been strictly a business affair as most of the gentry's were. If they loved one another fine and if they didn't that was just as well, the point was to align two very powerful families. That and nothing else and once she had achieved that then the rest was either expendable or would fall into place. If her daughter had children that was all fine and good if not then that was even better because then _Charles' _son could take the title and make her even more powerful.

Hence the constant pressure for her son to marry someone equally as important as his sister if not better. Either one would do as long as they met the following qualifications. They had to be beautiful, rich, good family, legitimate and above all at the same level of power as he was, if not higher. Marie was only one of those five things by Madeline's standards and that was she wasn't a bastard child. That was her only saving grace in the Dowager's eyes, other than that she was absolute garbage unfit to lick the dirt from her boots.

But Charles didn't see her that way and never had, she seemed a perfectly good lady to make a wife out of and so he set his sights on her. He did not care how Carlotta had married as he rarely saw her and when he did it was at obligatory events. Balls and things like that where they had to exchange a kiss on the hand and one in the air besides their cheeks. Other than that they had little to no contact and he wasn't even sure if she was alive half the time. The same went for Carlotta as she was so busy in her new life where she was mistress that she had no desire to return to the place where she was under her mother's thumb.

He really wished his mother would stop throwing her daughter in his face and leave the decision of who he married up to him. It wasn't like he was in love with a servant, she was a lady and he was a lord and that should be enough. Charles looked his mother right in the eyes and took a deep breath, slow through his nose to steady himself before responding. He exhaled slowly, silently deciding for once in his life to do what he wanted rather than what his mother told him to do. Charles looked at her, knowing she expected him to go along with her as always. But he squared his shoulders, placed his hand on his knees and told her the truth.

"Yes I know Cara married well, Ubaldo is a good man and she has a son that you never see." He told her pointedly, "But I am going to marry the Vicomtesse Perrault and everything will be fine."

"It'll be an unhappy union," she warned, "No good will come out of it."

He had ignored her and they had married. Marie had born the worst of her attacks, mostly because she had taken so long to give an heir to the Garnier line. She had never accepted that her son could not give his wife a child because she had been so able to conceive herself. Madeline couldn't believe there was anything wrong with her son minus the fact that he had no good sense making such a poor match. When Marie had told her she was going to have a child at last, after thirteen barren years, the Dowager's reaction couldn't have been less thrilled if she were being chewed in half by a crocodile.

"It's about time!" she snapped.

"I beg your pardon m'lady?" Marie stammered.

"It took you long enough, it's about time you gave my boy a son." She said.

"It might be a girl…" said his wife.

"It won't." she said sharply.

"But it might…" Marie started.

"It _won't." _she hissed firmly and her eyes threatened, 'it'd better not be.'

Madeline for all her coldness had not been wrong, the child had indeed been born male and she had been smug. His mother had demanded to see the child at once though she had looked in disgust at the boy's face. The woman at first guessed rightly that the child could not possibly be the seed of her handsome son but abandoning the belief in favor of believing her son. He had told her that this was his father's namesake and first born and the love in his eyes seemed to be enough. She had made Marie cry and Charles furious by announcing this child's appearance was their punishment for marrying.

His wife, still suffering the effects of her guilt had gone to pieces. He had been so mad that he'd taken the boy and his wife home without a word to his mother. That was the last time he spoke to her for the first five years of Erik's life. Until on his fifth birthday they received a letter offering her humblest apologies and requesting to see her grandson. Charles had thought it over and relented because this was the most heartfelt apology they were going to get from her. Marie had agreed to let her child go visit on the condition that his father went with him instead of her.

When they had arrived, his mother had tried not to show just how thrilled she was to see them. Trying as always to be as cold to this grandson as she was the first born when she happened to see him, but it didn't work. Although Madeline had tried to be strict with the boy she could not hide the fact that she was pleased to have him there at her doorstep. Even more so knowing that she had someone to leave her father's title to who wasn't the grandson of that lecherous Italian. That was the true reason she had never really bothered to bond with Saraphimo, he reminded her of his mother and she of her birthfather.

Erik was a different story; he was the one who would mop away the notion that anything belonging to Choleti would ever have her father's power. That and downright adorable. Still she tried for that cold but gentle affect she was famous for, but Erik wasn't having it. He went right up to her and climbed into her lap, snuggling there as if he belonged. She put her hand on his head and absentmindedly chided him that young earls did not climb in people's laps. He ignored her and began to match the tune of a little bluebird outside the window. Like everyone else, his grandmother had been shocked by the purity of his voice and even cried a little.

"Beautiful…" she whispered in a shaky, watered voice.

"Grandmother please do not cry," Erik said, "I'll come see you every day so you won't be lonely and I'll sing for you too."

"Thank you Erik, it seems you do have a little angel stuck in your throat." She said, petting his head.

"What kind of angel Grandmother?" asked the boy sweetly. "The good kind or the bad…I hope the Angel isn't bad.""

"Angels are never bad little one, but one of the seraphs has surely gotten stuck down your throat." She said.

"What's a seraph?" he asked innocently.

"A choir angel, one of the finest…" she said smiling.

"Oh like an angel of music." Erik said.

"Yes, just like that."

"Oh…" Erik decided to leave it at that.

Erik being five then stuck his fingers down his throat, gagging himself. "Erik Charles Mansart," Madeline gasped horrified. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get the angel out so it can go home," he said, "it must be lonely with just my morning tea for company."

Madeline laughed at him, "Boy the angel wants to be there so he can bless you with your voice."

"Oh but won't he miss his mama and papa?" Erik asked.

"No little one," she smiled kindly, "But it's very nice of you to worry."

"Oh," Erik muttered than yawned, "I am sleepy." He said and promptly passed out.

Madeline had been so touched by the sleeping child, that she had not wanted him to go home. Charles had admittedly loathed removing the child from his grandmother's arms to return him to his mother. She had even been teary when he took Erik away and for a moment Charles wanted to hand him back to her and spend the rest of his life watching her be affectionate to his child. But he had to go home to his mother, and he had lessons the next day. So, he allowed her to kiss his deformed face, touch his raven-wing hair and squeeze his tiny hand.

His mother pulled his thumb out of his mouth gently, laying it limply at his side so that he put his hand on his chest. He saw her pick up his stuffed horse, which he took everywhere with him and tucked it under his arm. Charles took him out to the coach and watched as she followed him to the door where he got inside next to him. Then his mother did the strangest thing, he saw her place a locket bearing the Garnier family crest on his chest before stepping away from him finally. She wore that locket twenty-four-seven and it was the crown-jewel of her entire collection.

It had been in the family for years, decades even. Passed on from generation to generation only when the current holder was dead. To see her giving it up to her grandson now rather than him and while she was still living was shocking to him. But he did not question it, finding it sweet that there was something of Marie's that she loved. Even if it was not his biologically, she loved him and that was good enough for Charles. She kissed Erik again twice, once on each cheek. One for now and one to save for later, the way she had when Charles was a little boy, it warmed her son's heart.

He only wished she loved her other grandson the way she seemed to instantly adore Erik but she did not and it was no concern of his. His priority was lying in his lap with his head on his knee making little gurgling snores and sucking his thumb again. She removed his thumb again, shaking her head with a little closed-mouth smile as though she knew it was useless. Charles chuckled lightly; his mother was so proper even when it came to little childish things like thumb-sucking. He took off his large overcoat and tucked it around Erik, knowing he should tell the driver to go but not ready to just yet.

Madeline stopped him from saying goodbye, and wrapped her arm around him in a half-hug. He was admittedly a little stunned, but returned the embrace just the same. She held him for a long moment, before finally letting go.

"If Erik is ever in any trouble you let me know and you can send him right here." She whispered.

"Thank you mother." He said.

That was the end of that conversation; he drove home that night to his wife who was waiting to take her sleeping child from his arms. She had been worried that the woman had hurt him because her boy was so energetic and now was tuckered out in her arms. But Charles had told her how well it went, and even she had smiled though her dislike of his mother was still very apparent. But he felt better now that his mother had accepted Erik and she loved him, and the relief from the boy's mother was there too. Now as he stood in his home, worrying along with his wife he decided it was time to consider a grandmother's offer.


	4. Chapter three: The story of a duke

**Chapter three: The story of a duke**

"What are we to do with him Charlie?" Marie asked with worry in her face.

"Send him to my mother I suppose." He replied, finding his pipe.

"Send him away?" she said, paling.

"Only for a little while, "he tried to reassure his wife.

"But, but he's my baby." She said her voice trembling.

Charles lit his pipe and took a long drag on it knowing things were about to go bad. The thought of sending Erik away was one that his wife hated and feared. He hated it too, there was something cold and lonely about the very thought of that boy not being in the home. But Charles was at the end of his rope with the boy. He blew out the smoke and sighed, knowing this was going to be a very painful conversation. Marie looked sad as he knew she would be upon hearing his plan but she did not seem to want to fight him on it.

He almost wished she was as he looked into those hurting violet eyes and felt his heart snap in two. She looked as if she was trying to be strong and dutiful like usual and he felt like a bastard for doing this to her. Charles almost wished he could take it back but he knew it was the right thing to do for the three of them. Still right or wrong he felt horrible for breaking her heart and the distress she was in was something awful. He wanted her to yell at him, rage and demand he keep her child at home where he belonged.

He had prepared himself for the fight that was coming, for the argument and the anger that he would suggest such a thing. But none came; instead she placed her hand on her temple as if she had a very serious headache. She then turned toward the portrait of the three of them together, hanging above the mantle. In the painting she was standing in front of him. Charles had his hands on her shoulders strongly and her own hands on Erik's shoulders. It was his favorite picture of them, and the reason he had been so reluctant to let go of the boy.

Charles had tried to send Erik to his grandmother before and it never went well. He had bought up the subject of sending the boy away before and she had gone into absolute hysterics. Her anger bordering on all-out rage, they had fought for hours and she had even stopped speaking to him. He had prepared himself for a repeat of that and was taking a deep breath in preparation. But she didn't rage, she didn't scream…she just shook her head and let out a deep sigh. It was a sound that meant she had given up and the last one she gave before meeting his eye.

She just said, "all right," in that soft resigned way of hers.

"It will only be until the season begins and then he will come home." He said as gently as he could.

"I know," she said, "But Erik being gone, it's just unbearable."

"You know it is for the best." He said gently.

"But she lives so far away…" she protested.

"He is unhappy here; perhaps a good stay in the country will do him good and be just what he needs." Charles reasoned with her.

Marie nodded and offered a weak smile that never reached her eyes. He sighed and wrapped her arms around her. She leaned on him, feeling her eyes become wet and then she began to weep, holding his shirt. Charles wrapped his arms around her as she broke down on him. Marie cried for another quarter of an hour, before he put her in the armchair and had her swallow another cup of tea. It made her sleepy, as two cups of hot liquid always did. She finished the tea and then let out a yawn, causing her husband to smile.

"Good night dear." He said.

"Mph, no…Erik… I have to kiss him goodbye." Marie mumbled.

"I'm not sending him off tonight; I have to at least write my mother first." He said. "You know how she is about uninvited guests."

"Mmm…right…" she said, drifting off.

"Sleep well Marie." Charles whispered, taking the cup from her lap.

"Night Charlie…" was the last thing she said that night.

Charles sighed and kissed his now snoring wife on the head, putting a living room blanket over her to ensure she did not catch a chill. Marie just curled up in a more fetal position and moaned. Her husband had to smile; she always slept in the oddest positions. He found it adorable that she always curled up in a ball while she slept and drooled a little when she was deeply in her dreams. Which she was at this very moment and there was a little puddle on the cushions. Most men would have found this unappealing; in fact he was sure they would have thought it down-right disgusting.

But not him, he found it positively sweet that she could sleep so well in his presence. That here in his mansion he had the simple pleasure of having tea and dozing off. With the woman he loved sleeping at his side, a rare occasion in this world of money and power. He shook his head and took out his handkerchief, wiping her chin. Marie simply smiled at him in her sleep. Charles stood back a moment, still as a stone only his eyes moved about the room. He took in the beauty of his study, the fire crackling and dwindling warmly as a cheerful song might during the final verse.

It lit up the silver tea tray on the coffee-table in the center of the room which sported the china cups they had drank out of. They had little cupids with heart arrows on their faces. These were his wife's favorite and he thought they were charming. He looked at their mirrored reflection in the silver, slightly fogged over by the steam from the tea. Charles spit on the surface, rubbing the moisture in to shine it up. He smirked, knowing Marie would be repulsed at the thought of saliva on her dishes but it was just a speedy way of doing things.

Not that the maids were incompetent, far from it but he just didn't see anything wrong with a little spit and polish routine. His wife on the other hand had a dreadful fear of germs and other crawly things. Especially germs, they were not only crawly but invisible and apt to make one ill. She would berate him endlessly about sanitation if she saw him cleaning the dishes with spittle and the thought made him want to laugh aloud. Marie threw the most adorable tantrums. She was shorter than him by a foot and round as a country pumpkin. When she lectured him he was reminded of a dwarf, hopping up and down mid rant.

In fact he found nearly everything about his wife charming; from her fussy nature to her unladylike sleep. He had finished the tea with her in silence and picked up the half of a butter biscuit on his saucer. The Duke nibbled it thoughtfully absentmindedly reflecting on how long it had been since he actually finished one. Charles had remembered favoring these as a child, especially with his tea. The memory caused him to close his eyes and bite the cookie slowly enjoying the extra sweetness, which came from the overflowed liquid pooled on the plate.

He finished the cookie and grabbed two cookies from the three left over on the plate and carried them up the stairs. They were Erik's favorite too and it might do well as a peace offering before he told him that he meant to send him off. As Charles walked down the hall he was met with the sight of family portraits around every corner. There were pictures of all the milestones in his son's life. They were oil paintings of him riding his horse with his father, playing the piano for his mother and just about every other thing he could think of. Everything from him taking a nap in Marie's arms to opening a Christmas sweater from Madeline, it was truly something to behold.

He got to his son's door. Upon receiving no answer pressed his ear to the wood. Erik was snoring and he opened the door and stepped inside where his son was laying on the massive bed, peaceful. He wore no shirt and Charles took a moment to revel in the unmatched beauty that is Erik Charles Mansart. No, not Mansart… De Chagny. As much as it hurt Charles to admit it this beautiful young man was the very image of the late Comte Philibert De Chagny. He had the same sculpted body, the broad shoulders and the long fingers that marked the Chagny's ability to woo or so they said.

Charles was grateful that Erik had violet eyes like his mother because had they been blue people would have not believed he was his father. He wondered if Erik knew who his father was but banished the thought because there was no possible way he could have known. Charles had never told him and did not care to and there was not a chance in hell Marie had said a word. Still, looking down at Erik it was impossible to ignore that he was by all biological rights, not his son. Although he never really cared and loved him anyway it was painful to admit how badly he wished things were different.

"He should have been mine." Charles said to the darkness, "he _is _mine." He announced to the silence.

He spoke too loud and woke the boy, who frowned sleepily. "What's the matter father," Erik asked.

"Nothing son, go back to sleep," replied the older man.

"Are you sure?" Erik asked, though his voice was already groggy.

"Yes son, just go to sleep I am fine." He lied, not wanting his heir to see his pain.

"All right," He replied. "Good night father I love you."

Charles smiled at the sweetness of the young man's voice; he truly was an angel of music. The duke kissed him on the head and pulled the thick coverlet more snuggly over his son. Erik had gone right back to sleep as was his way. The young man was such a night-owl that when he did sleep (which was a very rare occasion) it was as deep if not deeper than Rip Van Winkle himself. If he was woken up from his rest in the night then he would just pass out cold nearly right after. He kissed the boy on his forehead, twenty-four or not he was still his only child.

"I love you too son," he whispered to the sleeping man.

The only sound that greeted him was the light snoring of his son who slept in peace. Charles could not help himself; he bent down and kissed him on the head again. Erik stirred and opened his eyes a little looking at him. Charles put his finger to the younger man's lips and made a shushing sound. Erik gave a tiny smile, and closed his eyes again grabbing his arm. The duke smiled down at the child he had raised and sighed as he tried to forget. Erik was the Mansart heir, period. He had no ties to the Chagny line.

None at all, except the most important one, the one that society cared about and hurt his poor wife. God help them all if someone ever found out, and the word spread it would devastate them. It would leave him in disgrace and poor Erik would lose everything. Of course, this was just paranoia. Charles seemed to live in a constant state of paranoia over the family secret and he cursed himself and his wife for forcing this on him. He hated that he could not have his own biological child, and for making his wife so desperate that she had to take on another man to have a baby.

He did not blame the boy. Charles knew that he had no control over who his parents were. Erik did not ask to be born another man's son and had no knowledge of it to begin with. But that did not mean the feeling of desire never got to him and even a little disdain. When he thought of how his wife had taken one of those stuffy stuck-up peacocks as a lover. When he looked at the son he had raised for more than two decades and saw another man it was painful beyond words. Especially when he thought of how close they had always been when he was a boy.

Charles loved Erik, always had and always would. But the resentment was there even now as he looked at the sleeping young man in front of him. How beautiful he was and how like his birthfather he looked. Charles resented the fact that he could not have a son of his own and needed womanizers like Philibert to provide decent men with children. He pulled a blanket over Erik watching him sleep and gently ran a hand through his black hair. Marie had the same hair, he looked like Marie and for that Charles loved him even more looking like a Greek God the way the other two boys did.

The duke had pushed the thought out of his mind, but still he wondered what Erik would be like if he weren't his stepson. He wondered and he wished, he cried and he cursed his heart for wanting it so badly when he knew that would never happen. He sat down on the side of the bed, looking down at the boy. Remembering the first time it had hit him this hard. Erik had been no more than a week old then, still an infant fresh from the womb. Marie had been resting from the ordeal and Charles had been left to tend the child.

Marie did not trust any of the servants to handle him so Charles had been holding the future duke and looking down at him. He stared back at his stepfather with a seriousness that was positively frightening. He had the Chagny coldness of his birthfather, it was plain as day on his little face even then. Charles had been gazing down at him and felt angry at his wife and at Chagny. He hated Chagny for sleeping with his wife. He was angry with Marie for poisoning herself because her lover wanted to be rid of his bastard. That this beautiful child had to pay the price for his mother and father although his beauty was another man's.

He had to give Marie credit for one thing. If she must have taken a lover than she had picked the right one, they had made a handsome son. And it was that beauty that made him so angry, the child should have been his, had his slender but stocky build and not these angular features. Not this heart shaped face, perfect nose. Charles wanted him to have a crooked nose, not the sharp narrow ark that was his nose. Still Charles could not deny that he felt attached to him. He hated himself for it but that's the way it was, and so he went into his bedroom where his wife was just waking up.

"Morning love, nice nap?" he asked.

"Yes is the baby all right?" she asked in reply.

"Your son is fine." He snapped without meaning to,

She winced, "Good." She whispered almost too softly to hear.

"Marie I…" he started.

"No, you are right, he is **my** son." She said obvious pain in her voice.

"I should not have said that." He said.

"It's the truth." She said the pain in her voice heartbreaking.

"No, Marie love, he's ours I just…" he stopped.

"You just what, know that he isn't yours. Do you think that is lost on me Charles?" she snapped.

"No of course not, but I…" he didn't know what to say, he had never seen her so upset before.

"Well I am sorry Charles, but I wanted a baby and you needed an heir. You cannot provide me with a child so I shall provide you with one." She snapped at him.

"You don't know that…" he whispered, voice breaking.

"Yes I do," she said, "You told me yourself that the typhoid fever you had as a child malformed your seed."  
"Marie please just try to understand…" he pleaded.

"Understand what?" she asked, "if you are so bitter about it than perhaps you should leave me and my son to the street as many of those above me would."

That made Charles wince that she would think of ever being abandoned by him was something he could not take. He sighed and looked at her hurting, angered face wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her to him. She was so angry and hurt by this conversation that she pounded his chest and pushed at him to get away. But he was stronger than her and laid her against him easily before dipping his head over hers and whispering words that broke her heart.

"I…it just kills me that he has the Chagny blood…I love you so much and I wish he could have been mine."

When she heard the soft sob in her husband's voice Marie softened and she opened her arms to him. He accepted the hug and she let him weep in her arms, Charles never cried, even when his father died he hadn't shed a tear. When Erik was born he had shown no emotion other than a small smile to show that he was happy the child had been birthed a male so that he was not asked to try a second time. But now here he was, expressing love and pain openly and telling her how he loved her and wanted her child to be his.

She could not change the fact that he wasn't, biologically that is. But when it came to whose son the boy would be well that was entirely up to Charles. He knew it too, and when her husband pulled away he looked back into the room where the baby was sleeping. Marie sighed and lifted him up as she bought him to his stepfather and placed him in his arms. Charles looked down at the deformed child and touched the black fuzz of his just-sprouting hair.

"Erik…" he said.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"I want to name him 'Erik' for my father."

"Of course," she said and stood on her toes to kiss him.

In that moment Charles knew that no matter what Erik was his son and that was the end of it. They never spoke of it again. Now as Charles made his way to the drawing room he wondered how he would tell the boy that in the morning that he was sending him away. For tonight he went down to his office and taking out his pen wrote.

_Dear Mother…_


End file.
